Neverland
by fairmaidofkent
Summary: Scorpius Malfoy, a writer with dreams of success, is unable to capture the interest of the public. Lady Zabini, once a famous super-model, is certain that this aspiring young man can help her return to fame. Based on the classic film Sunset Boulevard.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters here belong to JKR, and the plot is adapted from the famous film _Sunset Boulevard. _Also, I'd like to thank Anachonistic Anglophile for both proposing that the plot be done with HP characters and beta'ing this.

* * *

_London, England_

_December the Eighth, 2026_

Hello, and welcome.

You may not yet understand the irony that rests within the mere fact you are reading these words, but fear not, it will strike you when the time is nigh. Since I put down these words, you may ask yourself, 'What is strange in my reading?' Allow me just a moment to compose myself, to contain my smile and carry on in a dignified manner.

You seem distracted. Ah, is that what you're staring at? That body, over there? Well, it really shouldn't cause you undue concern; he was far less important than you might imagine. He wanted to write, you see. He was a dreamer, that one, but little more. He may have dealt with important men (and of course, women) in the span of his short life, but he himself had very little significance. Now, let us move on.

No? You wish to learn _why _there is a body here? It is a strange tale indeed, but not the one that I intended to tell.

You insist? Very well. I am intimately familiar with the story, and can easily tell you _why_ that man is deceased, but you may not fully understand unless I start at the beginning.

_--Six months earlier--_

_My dearest,_

_I'm owling only to send my love, not the three hundred galleons you so subtly requested. Your father and I will give you our affection always, but must continue to tell you that we do not agree with your decision to abandon the family business. Your darling brother, Ophiuchus, insists that he will be willing to bear the burden in your place, but you are your father's heir and it is your rightful place.  
My son, we miss you terribly, especially since we have seen none of your writings published for over a year, though I scour the _Prophet _and the _Wand_ every morning in case a misplaced sense of modesty keeps you from telling us of success. Please dear, we will all overlook this departure as youthful exuberance, and laugh about it in a few years once you are married and settled into the corporate life. It is what you were raised for; not this foolish obsession with words._

_All the love in the world, your mother,_

_Astoria Malfoy_

Scorpius Malfoy crushed the parchment in his fist, thinking how handy a blazing hearth would be in this moment. Instead, he had to settle with hurling the note into a rubbish bin; it was far less satisfying than watching it curl into ash. _But never mind that--_ he let his frustration with his mother slip away. She would never understand the urge to succeed, to struggle past obstacles, as her great goal in life had been to marry a wealthy Pureblood man- and she had done so with little difficulty. She'd married his father.

Draco Malfoy. He'd not been pleased when his oldest son had declared his desire to move to London and become a freelance writer for _The Daily Prophet _or, if they would have him, _The Wizard's Wand. _He had informed him of his disapproval, but would not deny him the opportunity. However, he would deny funds. Undoubtedly, Draco had expected Scorpius, the pampered prince of the Malfoy legacy, to come crawling back within the week.

Incredibly, he did not. Scorpius's first piece had been published in the _Wand,_ for it had been written on a topic people still longed to know more about: Scorpius's own grandfather, Lucius Malfoy. Though decades had passed since Voldemort had fallen at the hands of Harry Potter, there were still whispers about the last surviving Death Eater of the Inner Circle, and Scorpius had given them only a tiny peek into the man's life. It had been a sensation. People were still talking about it.

However, shortly after its publication, he'd received a letter and package of sweets from his grandmother, kindly asking that he never write about her or her husband ever again. Unable to deny the request lest he cause tension within his family, he agreed and moved to other topics.

What remained were only those that the public found far less appealing, apparently. He'd had only two other articles published since then, small pieces on sibling relationships and parental influence. No morefollowed, once his popularity faded and proved him a one-hit wonder. He'd moved from his moderate-sized flat to a cramped apartment that he shared with two roommates, and hadn't paid his full share of the rent for months.

As it happened, this was his current concern at the moment. He had only one possession to his name valued at over ten galleons on its own, and that was his _Nimbus 6000._ It was not the newest or sleekest model on the market, but he loved it dearly; it was the broom his father had given him when he made the Slytherin team, and it had been the best of its time.

It was worth about three hundred galleons now, and that happened to be the exact amount he owed for rent-- the exact amount that his mother refused to loan him.

He glanced at the dingy clock hung precariously on the thin plaster wall. Jerome and Gavin would be back from work any minute. He pulled out his wand and strode into his bedroom, if the cramped, closet-sized space could truly be considered a room, and cast the most powerful Disillusionment Charm he could manage on the broomstick. It would, at least, keep the two mediocre warlocks from discovering it before he took it out at six o'clock for his meeting with Stewart Ackerly, the Editor-in-Chief of the _Wand._

The click of the lock alerted him to his roommates' return. Hastily, he went back into the living room, and began innocently shuffling papers.

"Hey, Scorp," Gavin's jeering voice reached him first, and he clenched his jaw in irritation at the crass shortening of his name.

"Yes?"

"Rent's due today," Jerome informed him, entering behind his brother. "You're up to three hundred, Malfoy. We can't keep covering for you. Pay up."

"Look," he inhaled sharply, pushing a hand through his cropped blond hair. "I don't have it right now. But I'm pitching a new idea to Mr. Ackerly today, and I _know _this is the break I've been waiting for- I'll have the money in a week."

"Too little, too late," snapped Gavin, glancing around. "We could sell that broom of yours today, though..."

"Wouldn't you know," Scorpius said quickly, "I've loaned it to a friend. Won't have it back for ten days."

"Liar," hissed Jerome, lips curling as his eyes combed the tiny flat. "It's ours the second we see it," he warned.

"You'll have your money by then," he promised. Gavin rolled his eyes.

"Come on," he gestured to his brother. "Let's head out to the bar. It's obvious we don't have a chance of seeing any galleons tonight." They both glared at Scorpius as they headed back out. When the door was closed, he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Scorpius watched from the window until the saw the two take their own brooms and shoot off before retrieving his own, lifting the charm, and swinging it on to his shoulder.

"Here goes," he muttered as he locked the door of the flat behind him and descended the reeking, claustrophobic stairs. The street outside was busy and crowded, and he was jostled as he made his way to the curb and mounted his broom. This was his last chance, and he couldn't afford to not have this newest piece published.

* * *

"Scorpius. Nice to see you again." Steward Ackerly waited until Scorpius closed the office door behind him before continuing. "It's been a while, and I've read your new article."

"Yes?" Scorpius prompted eagerly.

"It was awful. I've told you, kid, the only thing people are interested in from you is your family history. No one cares about petty little observations or theories on magic that you concoct. I'll tell you another time: If you want to write more on your grandfather, you'll have a steady income. Make it a biography, and I'll get in contact with publishers that'll make you rich on your own standing, not through your family's gold. How about it?"

"I've told you, Mr. Ackerly," he managed through gritted teeth. "I can't. Did you even get a second opinion? I didn't think it was so bad."

Stewart gave him a long stare before calling, "Hey, Rosie."

After a moment, the door cracked open and a pretty face peeped in. "Yes, Mr. Ackerly?"

"C'mere a second."

She entered, and with a start, he recognized Rose Weasley. She'd grown into a very appealing woman, but did not bother to even glance at him.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Ackerly?" she asked primly, her expression that of a person wanting to please.

"Did you read that bit that came in on Tuesday morning? The one about breaking through limiting expectations?"

"I did."

"What did you think of it?"

"Dry and unoriginal. Not at all up to par with our usual publications."

"Ouch," Scorpius cringed ruefully, and she turned to acknowledge him at last.

"Rosie, meet the author, Scorpius Malfoy."

"Nothing like an honest opinion," Scorpius muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Malfoy," though he could tell from her tone that she was not, "but surely you see that topic has been thoroughly covered. We're not interested in repeats here."

"I think I'll just go now," he snapped. "And I'm sorry I wasted your time. Have a nice day, Mr. Ackerly." He did not bid Rose Weasley farewell as he stormed from the office.

_What do they know, anyway?_ he thought angrily as he reached the street below the grand headquarters and mounted his _Nimbus 6000_. As he zipped along close to the ground, wondering if perhaps _The Daily Prophet _would like his writing any better, a strange movement caught his eye.

_No. _As if his day had not been bad enough- Gavin and Jerome, apparently having caught sight of him from the sidewalk, were now hastily clambering on to their own brooms, and taking pursuit.

Scorpius swore under his breath and swerved off the main street, on to a wide boulevard. It was a very wealthy part of town, they type his grandparents would undoubtedly own real estate in, and had a quiet, untended feel to it. He zipped along, glancing over his shoulder and realizing, with a stab of panic, that the two brothers were close behind.

One of them drew his wand and bellowed, "_Accio!_"

Broomsticks were made with enchantments upon them to defend from opposing spells, but even the best began to fade with time, and Scorpius's broom was by no means new. The shaft itself was not pulled back, but a clump of twigs from the tail was ripped away, instantly throwing him off balance.

Truly fearful now, as he rounded a bend in the street, he made a sharp turn into a narrow driveway, lined by overgrown hedges. His breath was coming in shallow gasps and he pressed himself into the untamed shrubbery as Jerome and Gavin soared by. It would be only minutes before the pair realized they'd been duped, and when the doubled back, he vowed to not be found crouched in a stranger's drive. He lifted his head and squared his shoulders, beginning the trudge along the winding pathway that led to the manor house beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

The house was large and elegant, but that was not what drew Scorpius's attention- he'd grown up in the grandest of homes. No, what truly intrigued Scorpius was the thick neglect that hung over the mansion- gardens were overgrown, weeds strangling whatever flora had once graced the lawns. There was a pond, at one time ornamental and pristine, now a festering swamp of algae and decay. A fountain still bubbled weakly from its center, the charm growing old and unrefreshed. Insects swarmed lazily over the green surface, and Scorpius gave it a wide berth as he picked his way across the cracked flagstones of what had, at some distant point in the past, been an impressive entry way. Obviously, no one lived there, could not have lived there for a decade, at least. He would just hide inside until tonight, and once Jerome and Gavin gave up on their search, he would have to admit defeat and fly home. His mother, no doubt, would be thrilled to see him, although he didn't think he could bear his father's quiet smugness. Ophiuchus would stare up at him, with all the guileless curiosity of a nine year old and the budding maliciousness of a Malfoy, and ask what had gone wrong.

No matter, he had little choice now.

His hand fell on the heavy brass knocker- there was no knob- and pulled experimentally on it. The door did not budge, and he let it fall with frustration. An echoing bang rang out, and his fingers groped within his pocket for his wand. However, before he could cast _Alohomora,_ the door swung open.

Scorpius stumbled back, startled, as an man in his late sixties stared back at him. He looked as though he'd once been handsome, but his back was now stooped, and his dark skin sagged in folds around his face. He wore the uniform of a servant, and nodded to Scorpius.

"Good afternoon. We've been expecting you."

"I- 'We'? What d'you mean, expecting? I didn't even know I was going to be here until about two minutes ago."

The butler ignored this statement. "You can go upstairs; she is waiting," he announced formally, standing back so he could pass. Scorpius did not move.

"Look, I think you've made a mistake."

A shout from the other side of the wild hedge drew his attention- the brothers were heading back this way.

"On second thought," he said hastily, stepping forward, "I think I will come in."

"That way," she strange man announced, gesturing to a sweeping staircase. "She is waiting," he repeated.

Unlike the outside, the home's internal well-being had been kept meticulously. There was not a speck of dust in sight, and everything shone. Despite himself, Scorpius began to mount the steps, eyes roaming across the arched ceiling, high windows, gleaming chandelier. His hand slid along the polished banister, and thick carpeting muffled his footfalls on the marble stairs.

"Hello?" he called, glancing around. The landing appeared to be deserted.

"In here." The voice that summoned him was thick with superiority, and yet reedy; a voice that was used to being obeyed. From those two words alone, Scorpius knew he was dealing with a jaded woman, an aging creature with the world in the palm of her hand since she was a child.

The sight of her did not surprise him.

She could have been forty or fifty or sixty-five; there was something in her in her elegant face that did not permit the ravages of time. Her eyes were long and slanting, half-closed and chin lofted in arrogance. Raven hair flowed loose and thick behind her; no doubt it would have been streaked with grey without charms and potions to keep the ebony shine. Scorpius was quite sure he'd never seen such a perfect nose in his life- straight, long, and narrow, it looked as though classical sculptor had decided to make it the crowning achievement on a masterpiece. Her lips, thinning with age, were pursed into an unhappy pout.

"You're late," she drawled, dramatically raising one eyebrow and sweeping to her feet. Each movement was careful and rich with nuance, and she crossed the room with care, as though to allow him plently of time to see her.

"I think you've made a mistake," he informed her, disenchanted with the way she laid one hand carefully on her waist, turning her body into a stiff pose.

"I do not _make _mistakes," she informed him briskly. "The body is there. I want a fine entombment for him, marble hippogriffs at the door to the crypt, gold leafing within. What do you think?"

Frowning, Scorpius crossed the room. There did in fact appear to be a body lying beneath a sheet, perhaps of a small child. He lifted the corner tentatively.

"A house-elf?" he snorted disdainfully, letting the fabric fall. The woman's nostrils flared.

"You insensitive child," she hissed. "What would some talentless rag such as yourself understand anyway? Go," she commanded imperiously.

Scorpius narrowed his eyes, her comment affecting him more than he cared to admit. "I've been published, you know," he spat. "Even if the editors haven't any interest in my articles doesn't mean I don't write them well! I won't write a biography," he growled thinking of his grandfather.

"_Won't _you?" Her eyes grew huge, thick eyelashes fluttering in excitement. "Are you a writer, my dear?"

He nodded obstinately. _She _didn't know how close he was to abandoning his dream.

"Well then, we are both quite in luck!" she exclaimed, spinning on once heel so that the layers of her dress swirled outwards in a flurry of musty color. The gown she wore was flattering but out of style, a fitted, high-necked black bodice with intricate black embroidery. The effect was a curious texture, and elusive pattern, but Scorpius had never seen a woman wear anything like it. The skirts were voluminous, and when she moved, the sheer black overlay shifted to reveal loud colors, muted by time, beneath.

She stalked elegantly over to a hideously disorganized desk, and swept her arm grandly as she smirked in a self-satisfied manner. "My autobiography," she breathed, eyes dancing with glee. "My natural born gift is not as a petty author, as you know, but I knew my memoirs would delight the world and remind the public of what they have long-since forgotten. And you shall edit it."

"Autobiography?" he echoed. "Why would the world want to read about you?"

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. Her hooded gazed blazed with a sudden fire, and she hissed furiously, "Do you not know who I am?"

"Nope. Sorry," he shrugged unapologetically. She made a tiny shriek of rage, quickly stopping the sound in the back of her throat. She was clearly someone who expected to be watched and judged in each moment.

"_I,_" she whispered, the only remaining trace of her anger glittering icily from her gaze, "am the great Lady Desdemona Zabini. Even you, in all your ignorance, should-"

"Zabini? Merlin, you were famous when... I don't know, when my grandparents were young?" he asked. He knew the name, knew that she'd been a renowned super model in her time, but the few photographs he could recall seeing of her were from her youth; from when her skin was smooth and bronze, her hair naturally ebony and thick, her lips full and pouting seductively.

"I _am_ famous," she replied scornfully, tossing her head and narrowing her eyes at him. "I still get post from fans every day, asking- no, _begging_- me to return to the fashion industry, to bring back the beauty and grace that only _I _possess. The common trash the they put in magazines today..." Her lips curled in disgust. "They don't have faces like mine, any more... they simply don't exist. The women in photographs now... A bunch of nobodies."

"I didn't know you were planning a comeback," Scorpius said, trying to stifle the sarcasm as he viewed the aging woman.

"I hate that word," she snapped. "It's a return, a return to the millions of people who have never forgiven me for deserting the runway. And you-" she pointed at him, turning her wrist gracefully and extending her index finger. "_you_ will help me. I've told no one yet of my plans, but your arrival is obviously a sign," she said briskly, curling her finger to beckon him before turning to start shuffling her papers. "Of course, when work gets out of my intentions, you will undoubtedly be hounded by the press, so you will stay here with me, to assure secrecy, while we are writing together. I want you to read over my first draft tonight, and I'll expect your comments by this time tomorrow. We'll start editing then."

Scorpius was already backing away, shaking his head. "Look, Lady Za-"

"Your peers will no doubt be inflamed by jealousy, but that is simply too bad for them. The pay, of course, will be more than satisfactory..."

Scorpius froze.

"Pay, you say? Exactly how much are we talking, here?"

"Oh," she waved an airy hand. "Enough. I'm a millionaire, after all, and I'll be a billionaire once my return is final. Money is not an issue."

Scorpius stared at her for a long minute, before nodding curtly. "Very well, then. Let me see that book."


End file.
